Thirteen Crucifixions,87

For Glen this felt like a red-letter day.  He had never had at his home this sort of gathering. He hoped there would be enough food for everyone.  Marlene would be there, with Randall, since celebrating their engagement would be the focus of this gathering.  His mother was coming and Doris.  Stephen and Pierre, Dwight, Margery, Carol and Greg.  This woman from Central America and her child would be coming with Carol.  He hadn’t met her yet.  She was Richard’s widow.  He had stopped reading his journal—for two months now he hadn’t picked it up.  Carol was still in no hurry to get it back from him.  She didn’t want to read it with him yet.  She said that she’d tell him when she was ready.  He was hoping that meeting Richard’s widow would help him make better sense of his writings.  Perhaps it wouldn’t.  Margery wanted him to start reading from them during their shared silences.  The sauce was almost ready, he had only to cook the pasta.  His mother and Doris would be also bringing food, as would Marlene and Carol.

            This had been for Glen a beautiful day.  He was again unemployed.  He didn’t care.  He knew that he would have to look for something soon. Chris still wanted him to work at the Sun Ray.   Maybe he would.  While buying avocados, lemons and romaine at one of the local markets he saw a man near his age carrying on his shoulders his young son, the sight of which warmed Glen tremendously, filling him with hope for the future.  Marisa, the daughter of the Italian owners of the market, was on her second pregnancy, which didn’t stop her from flirting with Glen as always.  She reminded him of his sister, who looked very Italian.  He had lived here for five years.   He had become too comfortable where he was.  It was beginning to feel small and cramped, as if he’d already outgrown it.  He didn’t want to move.  He knew that soon he would have to, without knowing why, or where he was going.  Lately he’d been feeling a gathering sense of restlessness.  He didn’t feel that he could simply be anywhere.  What did he need?  He had all these lovely people in his life.  But he was unemployed.  He could paint.  He was still doing flowers, small kitchen and bathroom size pieces.  Chris had offered to let him show his work at the Sun Ray.  Glen didn’t feel ready.

            He still loved his apartment, which occupied half the garret of this modest East Side mansion.  It was a beautiful house, painted blue with prism windows and stain-glass.  He didn’t know if he could fit everybody comfortably in for dinner.  Margery and Dwight were bringing folding chairs.  He’d never had a small child over, nor a pregnant woman.  He wondered how everyone would get along.  He also worried about the couple downstairs, who tended to copulate rather noisily during most evenings.  He wished he could provide other entertainment.

            Now he had nothing to do but sit and wait.  He might read, or paint, but he was too full of anxious care.  He badly wanted everything to come off well for everyone to enjoy themselves, to know that he’d done well.  He felt rather like Mrs. Dalloway. He almost wanted to knock on his downstairs neighbours’ door and at least invite them up, or just ask them to please not fuck each other until after everyone had gone home.  He wanted to tape their mouths shut.  The naked crucified Christ stared at him as always.  His mother had never seen it.  He wondered what her reaction might be, as he wondered if she’d take all right to Stephen.  He was sure she’d do well with Pierre, and with Greg, both of who seemed tailor-made for placating and mollifying their various friends’ mothers.  He had never played host to this kind of gathering before.

            His buzzer sounded.  He ran downstairs, and there were Stephen and Pierre.  “Fuck, what a day”, Stephen said.  “I’m soaked.”

            “Listen to the delicate princess”, Pierre said, rolling his eyes.

            “It’s due to clear up soon”, Glen said.

            “Yeah”, said Stephen, “Next July.  You still have your naked Jesus up on the wall.  Did you have a model?”

            “Timothy.  My ex.”

            “Is that when he became your ex?”

            “He’s kinda cute”, Pierre said.  “He makes a very sexy Jesus.  Looks like you, Stephen.”

            “My cock’s bigger.  Well, it is.”

            “Never mind!” Pierre shrieked.

            “You usually don’t, darling.”

            “Oh, here we go again.  Every time we’re over here we do this song and dance routine.”

            “You bring it out in us, Glenda”, Stephen said.  “Got a drinky-poo for us?”

            “Just coffee.”

            “Got anything stronger?”

            “Cocaine?” Pierre said, giggling.

            “I mean, to drink.”

            “How about me?” Pierre said, almost shrieking with laughter.

            “My own portable protein shake.”

            “You both are pretty gross”, Glen said.

            “He started it!” they chimed together, pointing at each other.

            “Where are the others?”, Pierre said.

            “Is your mom really coming?” Stephen said.

            “We’ll try not to scare her off”, Pierre said.

            “So your sister found herself a nice closet case”, Stephen said.

            “Randall?” Glen said.

            “It’s all over him.”

            “According to you”, Pierre said, “Everyone’s a closet case.”

            “They’re all ladies.”

            “Randall, anyway”, Glen said.

            “Has he ever hit on you?”

            “Not openly, but let’s just say that I feel like Marlene has rescued me from him.”

            “Big sis’ to the rescue”, Pierre said.

            Stephen had recovered quickly, though he would always carry on his wrists the marks of his self-loathing.  He’d said nothing to anyone about his experience—not what impelled him to take his life, nor what he’d experienced, if anything, while first dead and then comatose, nor what kind of change, if any, had registered in his life since.  Glen felt too restrained by delicacy to ask him.  Still, Stephen’s attitude and bravado seemed more forced than before.  He had been slowed by his ordeal, something about him had softened.  He seemed fragile now, delicate.  But he also appeared—dare Glen use the word—happy?  Perhaps grateful now for what he did have?  Not even to Pierre had he said anything.  The doctor had recommended psychotherapy, or at least counselling.  There was concern that he might make another attempt.  Like ornamental fauns the two youths adorned either end of Glen’s chesterfield.  They were drinking coffee.  The pasta sauce bubbled gently in the huge cauldron on the stove, filling the apartment with fragrances of savour, comfort and warmth.  Glen was sure, with the food offerings others would be bringing that there would be plenty for everyone.